


tried to go to heaven (but he went the other way)

by Magpied_Spider



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Shiro Loses His Arm (a fun story! for kids!!), background Ulaz, the galra gladiator arenas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 22:45:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12542916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpied_Spider/pseuds/Magpied_Spider
Summary: Human endurance is unmatched by any other creature on their planet.Shiro is no exception.ORIn which Shiro loses an arm.





	tried to go to heaven (but he went the other way)

**Author's Note:**

> spot the animorphs references!  
> also, much love to demenior, whose galra redesigns i used (though.... not much else from that 'verse.)  
> gold star to whoever manages to spot where the title came from.

The Kerberos mission had been particular about everything, from the types of food it carried to the obsessively-maintained air mix, to the clothes they had been provided, made to exacting specification to be in place with the allocated ambient air temperature - everything was there to keep them in as much comfort as possible (weight and size permitting) as the mission sailed into the black.

Here’s the thing that no one would realise if they looked at the mission, looked at the exacting conditions that had been set for those three humans to survive their mission: humans are tough.

This is the first thing Shiro learns - really learns, sinks down into his bones _learns_ \- starting from the first time he was in one of the Galra arenas. Humans can keep going, they can push through tremendous amounts of pain, keep staggering along even when exhausted.

Shiro had heard of marathon runners who completed their races with broken ankles, people who dragged themselves through battles with bullets in their bodies, people cutting off their own limbs or performing surgery on themselves because the pain now would prevent greater pain later - human endurance is unmatched by any other creature on their planet.

Shiro is no exception.

Fighting for his life is a much better motivator than the desire to get a finishing time in a race.

The Galra heal the survivors - he’d found that out after he’d cracked his ribs, thrown against the wall of the arena and landing with a sickening crunch, pushing through that match, then found himself not back in one of the cells but on a medical table. His ribs were fine by the time he was back in the cells.

So: he doesn’t have to not get hurt, he just had to be able to keep going. Last man standing doesn’t necessarily have to be on two good feet.

He’s grown used to the roar of the crowd, the sound dampened somewhat by the sand on the arena floor, doesn’t let it distract him.

It’s quieter now than when the fight started with the bloodbath between the other fighters. Seven of them this time, eight if he includes the drone, different shapes, different sizes, none with any idea how many will be left alive.

Shiro’s got something approaching a tactic, now, for these fights - get out of the fray as soon as he can. He’s underestimated, because of his size, because he’s learned to sneak, to wait for his moment.

Most of the gladiators follow a different school of thought: go for the hardest-looking opponent before you get tired, strike them down to make the rest fear you.

Shiro doesn’t do that. He waits.

Assesses.

The biggest one he’d compare to a bear, with blue fur instead of brown, ripping teeth and claws, moving in hops and jumps, striking heavily with its front paws and then following through with its mouth.

It’s an effective move - it nearly crushes the small, many-limbed green-furred creature nearest to it - but it leaves it vulnerable if it misses, and it’s slow to turn, heavy, each spring takes energy. It’s only made a few pounces, and already the distance it can close has shrunk from ten meters to about seven.

If Shiro stays outside that range, he should be passed over in favour of a closer target.

There was a taxxon (a sight familiar enough Shiro was sure of the name) - no real worry there, it’d be torn apart soon enough, but the giant centipede-like creatures with their bulbous red eyes tended to spray their fluid everywhere once their carapace was pierced, and the inclusion of one always made for a more dramatic spectacle. Combined with their tendency as a species to attack without regard for defending, it was an easy way to put blood on the sand.

Make the crowd bay for more, remind the gladiators that it could be them next.

There was a tetrapod that had reared up to its hind legs from the four it had started on, with a body shape and particular shade of purple fur that made Shiro think it might be a Galra offshoot - a criminal, perhaps, fed to the arena for sins against the empire - locked in step with a strange blue-green, horned alien of almost humanoid build. Both of them - matching Shiro in the prisoners’ garb they were wearing - were safe, for now, occupying each other too completely to be a danger to him just yet.

Shiro ducked the fire of the Automaton.

Drones were everywhere on the ships he’d been kept, in the cells and the hallways he’d seen far more of them than Galra. This one might have been malfunctioning, or it might just have been thrown in to add a little something extra to the night’s arena match.

It wasn’t there for long, the alien that had been to his right when the match had started - what looked like a great monitor lizard, orange-brown fading into gold scales, and with spikes along its spine like a storybook dragon  - whipping its tail into it and shattering its components to the ground.

He saw the lizard-alien meet his eye, stare at him. Assess him, dismiss him for the moment, and turn to the taxxon, ripping into its flesh with another whip of its tail.

The taxxon exploded like a wet paper bag filled with vomit, and a similar smell began to roll off its viscera. The bear-like alien flinched, the smaller one it was persuing actually stopping to gag. It doesn’t gag for long, finally caught and crushed under the bear-like alien’s claws.

The lizard-alien must be new. Going for the easy kill, winning the crowd over to its side - none of that matters if it got you a slice to the neck in the next moment, which it does, courtesy of the galra-looking alien, who severs its spine with the long claws at the end of its hands.

Four of them, now - him, the bear, the galra-looking alien, and the-- Shiro quickly revises his headcount as he sees the horned quasi-humanoid has not managed to get up from where it had landed. As Shiro took stock, he noticed that one of its legs was cut off, strewn half a meter away, the ground below dark with blood. Apparently losing a limb had been too much for it. So, three left.

The bear-alien is huge, but it’s looking ragged, dragging its bulk around. Shiro can’t see an easy way to attack it, but neither does it seem to be too difficult to stay out of its way - perhaps he could tire it to death, run it to exhaustion until it collapses, but that’s far off in a future he may not live to see if he doesn’t deal with the real issue here.

The Galra-looking alien.

He’d seen first-hand how strong Galra were, they’d thrown around him and the Holts like they were dolls when they’d first been brought in (fuck, he hoped they were safe, or not in immediate danger, or at least alive--) and if this one managed to grab him that’d probably be game over, no more Shiro.

The bear-alien roars at them, but Shiro could detect the exhaustion in its voice already. The temperature of the arena and the almost oppressive heat from the crowds combined with the sheer level of physical exertion took a toll on all of them; Shiro was already sweating. He couldn’t imagine doing it in what looked to be a coat designed for negative temperatures.

Stay out of range, deal with it later.

He eyes the Galra-offshoot. Long, sharp claws, the left hand dripping the dark blood of the horned alien that had lost its leg onto the arena’s sand. Sharp enough to cut, perhaps through bone, though he didn’t know what kind of bone structure the now-legless corpse of the alien had. It’d be good if he could drive the fight towards the body so he could investigate, but for now, he’d just do his best to steer clear of the talons.

It devolves into a strange game of keep-away, with the quasi-Galra trying to grab at him while they both stayed clear of the hulking bear-alien. Shiro dances out of reach, letting it waste its energy with each frenzied swipe.

The crowd are growing restless, now, the exciting action having completed, but the remaining competitors refusing to put on a good show.

Shiro takes a moment to weigh his options, before rushing past the bear-alien and whacking it on the nose. _You’re it_ , he thinks, about as far away from a schoolyard game of tag as he could possibly get. An _ooh_ rises up from the audience as he clears out of its range before it could get a swipe in.

Too hot, too big, too tired. Now, if only he could get a weapon.

He whirls, ducks the blow from the not-a-Galra, punches where its guts would be if it were human, ducks out of reach of its claws.

The bear-alien sends one of its paws smashing down, Shiro and the not-a-galra rolling in opposite directions away from it.

The not-a-Galra looks at the bear, then back to Shiro. There’s a moment of understanding between them: the battle is between the two of them, but they need to get rid of this creature before either of them can win.

By unspoken agreement, the other alien leaps at the bear’s face, claws flashing, as Shiro goes for its neck. The talons wouldn’t be able to cut through the thick fur, but Shiro can try and choke it.

Blinded, the bear gives another dull roar. The crowd is screaming, now, baying for blood - there’s nothing like an alliance in the pit against what would be an insurmountable opponent. There’s also nothing like two team-mates having to fight each other afterwards, which they might well do, if this match is for last standing.

The beast bucks, exhausted, trying to shake Shiro off, but he holds fast, pulls at the fur, until it finally gives a great groan and collapses onto its side, half-crushing Shiro and the other alien underneath it, its final attempt at bringing them down too broad for them to escape.

They both manage to struggle out, and they wait, circling around each other, working out who will make the first move. It’s clear, by this point, that this isn’t one of those fights where it’s the top three or two that will all live to fight another day.

Only one is going to make it out of here alive.

Shiro can see his opponent wondering what must be special about him - no claws, no fur, no tail. Perhaps it suspects he’s venomous, that if Shiro manages to get his teeth into it, it will waste away.

Human saliva might have a negative effect on this alien - it’s happened before, in what amounted to an anticlimactic fight a few weeks ago - but Shiro doesn’t want to try and rely on it.

His opponent had sliced off the leg of the other humanoid in the arena for the fight, and Shiro’s close enough to its corpse that he can see that yes, it _had_ sliced through bone.

He needs a weapon. Needs something with reach, so he can stay out of the way of those claws.

Needs--

The alien charges him, claws flashing, and Shiro just manages to duck away. It dances back before he can get an opportunity shot in, then swings again.

He’s not so lucky this time. He tries twisting out of the way, but his right arm took the blow as the not-a-Galra’s claws-- with a sickening squelch, and a jolt that Shiro feels throughout his body -- slices his right arm clean off.

The screams of the crowd as his arm falls to the ground hits Shiro like a wall, a wave of nausea flowing through him.

He can feel the blood pouring out of the stump, clutches it with one hand as he falls to his knees, wondering if this is it.

If he’s going to die, light-years from home, in a caged gladiator match against an alien.

He’s staring at the arm, what used to be _his_ arm, slowly leaking red blood into the sand.

And a single thought runs through his mind: he’s got something he can hit with, now.

The not-a-Galra has turned from him, left him for dead. Secure in its victory.

Shiro reaches out, grabs his fallen arm, gives it a momentary swing to check his balance, and rises.

Blood still pulsing out of the place where his arm used to attach, he stalks, quietly, carefully, to within range of his new club.

It’s unsporting, to clobber an opponent while their back is turned, but hey, Shiro’s _arm_ just got chopped off, he doubts that even the Galra’s medical tech will be able to reattach it - that is, if he doesn’t bleed out first - so at this point in time, he really doesn’t care.

The crowd roars as his opponent raises its arms to them, screaming back, confident it just won. Maybe most species wouldn’t be able to handle a limb being removed.

Most species don’t survive the rings as long as Shiro has, either.

Shiro grips the wrist of his detached arm, knuckles almost white. He’s got one chance at this, if he misses, he’s dead.

He doesn’t miss.

The arm connects to the alien’s skull with a thick, meaty smack, right on the side of the skull, which gives a crunch as his opponent’s knees fold as it falls to the ground. On a human, that’s where the skull is thinnest. On this creature, it seems the same.

Panting, Shiro stomps on its shoulder, keeping it down, then on its head before it can react, crunching the skull under his heel.

He’s the last one standing, again, and the knowledge that he doesn’t need to fight any more almost brings him back down to his knees, soon-to-be-gone adrenaline the only thing keeping him on his feet. His vision’s spotting, black patches closing in on his blurred sight, but he needs to make sure the crowd knows he knows he’s won.

No point in healing a gladiator no-one likes, after all.

So he raises the arm, still clenched in his fist, gives a scream that the crowd echoes back, and he feels the floor start to move under him, the telltale sign that the sand is beginning to be  swept away, the lone survivor taken to recuperate, and the roof above the arena begins to close off, separating him from the crowd once again.

One of the drones - it has a patch on its left arm with the paint scraped off, and the sticker on its chest which must denote its position in the Galra language is peeling, Shiro’s seen this one before, taking prisoners to and from the cells, ferrying them to the medical bay - begins to approach.

He doesn’t struggle, almost collapses onto it as it accompanies him out of the arena.

The droids aren’t as strong as their makers, but they’re strong enough to carry a human out.

He loses his grip on his arm, the wrist slipping out of his fingers as he staggers along the halls towards the medical area. The droid doesn’t stop to pick it up, nor, from what Shiro can tell, do any of the others.

There’s an actual Galra in his med bay, he sees, as if from a distance, as he makes his way onto the bed. Short white hair, and a paler snout than he’s ever seen of one of the aliens. It tilts his head, almost curious, as Shiro feels himself slipping into unconsciousness.

He awakens in his cell, a shared space that tends to have ten to fifteen aliens in it at a time, a constantly-rotating parade of faces. He’s faced some of those faces in arenas, knows that most of the time when one leaves, it won’t come back. No point in really cultivating cross-species friendships, though he’s learned a bit of what he’s referring to as _common_ , the series of clicks, whirrs, and syllables that most species seem to be able to produce and communicate with.

He sits up, slowly, though he feels almost fresher than the days leading up to the fight - Galra medical doesn’t mess around, it seems. His right side, rather than the emptiness he expected, feels heavy. Shiro breaks with testing his focus on the far walls - far: good, medium: fine - to look at his ex-arm.

He stops breathing for several seconds. Attached to the stump where his arm had been sliced away is-- it’s a metal arm, that’s the only way he can describe it.

He can feel where it is without looking at it, like he can with his flesh one, and he looks back to it as he tests the fingers, touching them one at a time to his thumb.

He’s seen fighters in the arena with prosthetics like this before, they’ve always been the most dangerous opponents. Half the time they come with extra abilities, like a _flamethrower_ , or knives that shoot out of the fingers when least expected. The other half… well, the mere fact that they’ve lost a limb and still won their last fight is enough to put anyone on edge. It’s a testament to how long they’ve survived, to the fact that the crowds like them enough to justify the expense.

Or maybe, like the rumours say, these kinds of… augmentations… are given to those who are taken under the wing, so to speak, of a higher-up Galra who happen to take a liking to them. Given better food, better cells, alongside their medical care, so long as they keep winning. There are even rumours that if they win enough, their patrons can manipulate who they next face, ensure they are in with at least a fighting chance. Their status affords them - not freedom, no, but a modicum of leeway. A slightly longer leash for them to run on.

There’s a small, clear square about the size of his palm next to the arm, and he picks it up with his flesh hand. It feels almost feels like glass.

Carefully, he transfers it to his… his new hand, he supposes, and the fingers glow a soft purple as the square lights up with text.

It seems to scramble for a moment, before resolving in -- Shiro catches his breath -- English text.

_There will be more where this came from. I expect you to become a Champion._

He can’t think about how that could be possible, because he has no way of knowing for sure, and the possibilities, if he thinks about them too hard, will surely drive him up the wall. Had they taken the language from Commander Holt’s brain? From Matt’s? From his own, through the connection to Shiro’s own brain that this arm surely must have?

He shoves all those thoughts aside, thinks through the implications of what the message _says_ , not how it is saying it.

He’s got a patron, he supposes, now. Someone invested in seeing him win more fights. Someone who saw him today and thought, _he’ll use his own body as a weapon, what if we give him a better one?_

As he gazes at the message, holding it between his fingers, he traces the edge, and finds something so thin as to be almost invisible.

A long, white hair is wrapped around the square. He removes, begins twining it absent-mindedly around his finger, feels it against his new metal hand.

 _There will be more where this came from._ An order, or a prediction? If he doesn’t maintain a similar level of aggression, will the arm be taken away?

 _Champion_.

A longer leash might be just enough to let him escape. Might be just enough rope to hang himself, too.

Either way, there’s only one way to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations [here!](http://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/post/166899824249/aliens-for-my-voltron-fic-tried-to-go-to-heaven)  
> Reblog fic [here!](http://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/post/166929275759/tried-to-go-to-heaven-but-he-went-the-other-way)  
> 


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